Crimson Rain
by Koukoi1412
Summary: His domain was of fiery speeches and blazing passion, glorious days and hearts aflame, radiant sunlight and golden summers. Hers was the realm of shadows and moonlit nights, whispered secrets at street corners, icy darkness and harsh winters. The barricade falls, leaving shattered dreams and broken souls in the aftermath.
1. The dark of ages past

**A/N: My first Les Miserables fanfic, dedicated to the greatest couple that never was. Set mostly in the 2012 movie-verse, with slices from the book and musical. Constructive criticism will be much appreciated.**

* * *

It had been raining, that night when her life should have ended upon the pile of furniture and cobblestones known famously as the last barricade. The men gather in a circle, pale and trembling faces she only recently came to know, gazing at her with a mixture of pity and fear. Their expressions mirror one unspoken thought: this is how it will end. In the cold, unfeeling embrace of death. She pities them, youths at their prime marching to their graves, their destinies entangled in this web of madness.

A lone tear slips down her brother's cheek-Gavroche who never cried, even when he was disowned by his own family, now shedding a tear for her. She feels a wet pressure as arms wrap around her. Her mind barely registers that they belong to Monsieur Marius, and suddenly it doesn't matter. She is going to die. And she will die for a cause. It sounds noble, the complete opposite of all she's ever been, a thief doing a heroic act, but everything about the revolution seems strange anyway.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out an envelope. With shaking fingers, she presses it into Monsieur Marius' palm. It all started with a letter—with messages scrawled on stolen paper by deceptive hands; how fitting that it should end this way.

Regret tugs at the corner of her eye, finding outlet in droplets of salty liquid. Will it haunt her in the afterlife? Fear urges her to do the unthinkable. There is nothing to lose; she will tell him.

_"I think I might have liked you a little_." A weight is lifted off her chest, and a light blush tinges her cheeks, as she accepts at last that she will never be with the boy she loves.

Half lidded eyes scan the heavens. "I want to see them, Monsieur. When…the flowers…grow." She rambles on and he lets her. A futile hope, the only thing they have left in this war. A horde of hopes and dreams clumsily thrown together as flimsily as this barricade—this mere straw fortress which cannot last.

She manages a faltering smile before her breath expires. The light drizzle could hardly cleanse her of all the filth and grime accumulated through the years, but it seems to erase the memories of her miserable past as her mind gradually succumbs to oblivion. The girl of the streets slips away as death claims her. No big fuss. No glorious gun salutes or mournful wails to acknowledge her brief existence. Nothing but darkness and relief from her wretched life in the gutters.

A ghost of a kiss sweeps past Eponine's brow, one she can never feel. From the distance, a blonde man watches, noting her grime-covered face and matted dark locks. Her hand hangs limp at her side; even in the stillness of death, it is not fully straight, as though her life remains unfinished, with crooked turns ahead, like the twisted alleys she once called home.

* * *

The cobblestones of Rue Mondetour were bathed in pools of crimson, drenched in the blood of martyrs for freedom, that fateful morning in early June when he should have died.

The first rays of light are Hades' messengers heralding their doom. He has not slept a wink the past night, plagued with worries and fears, as if all emotions were unleashed like a bottle of ale uncorked. Like a pendulum, his thoughts swing erratically between hope and despair, wondering if people would stir and support their cause or if today would be their last. An hour later, he has made up his mind. Wearily he climbs down his perch to break to his last remaining supporters them the dreaded news: the citizens will not come. They are on their own.

They choose to die fighting. Students and workers from all works of life with nothing but courage and dreams of a better tomorrow engraved on their valiant hearts. Thirty men untrained in the art of combat facing down an entire army of France's National Guard. The enemy's ranks come pouring in endlessly, and piercing gunshots and the thunderous boom of cannons ring out, each one shattering their dream into a million more pieces. But the walls of Troy must crumble eventually, and all their bravado fails to keep their fortress from falling prey to the mighty cannons at last. One falls to the right, a scream rings out from the left. Bahorel, Jehan, and Gavroche have departed already, and it is not long before Bossuet, Feully, Joly, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac join their ranks in the afterlife. By then, it's no longer about the revolution. They fight tooth and nail, like a cat cornered against a wall. No chance you'll win, take down as many as you can when you fall.

It ends too soon, the massacre too gruesome, the men too young. There is nothing romantic or glorious about their deaths. They thought they could be strong. They thought they could stare death in the eye and remain unfazed. They never dreamed it would be like this.

His barricade in ruins, the revolution a wreck, his comrades fallen, their once glorious dream crumbled into an ugly disaster, Enjolras reloads his gun, firing one last shot before heading towards the Corinth. He is the leader, and it his duty to display presence of mind though he himself is barely more than tattered shreds inside. He and three remaining men press forward, their lives hanging by a slender thread.

A few gunshots later and it is over.

Cornered at the second floor and joined by the last man on Earth he expected, he shoots one last defiant glare at the National Guard, prepared to die for his beloved Patria and join his friends in the journey to the Land of the Dead. He will go down with dignity, a martyr for his country. A chair scrapes the rough wood floor, and Grantaire inches his way towards him, still holding on to his ever-present wine bottle.

"Do you permit it?"

He nods, and clasps the other's hand, relishing the irony for a brief second before he raises the flag.

"Vive la France!" It is a cry for justice, a wail of grief, and a triumphal shout all at once.

Pain shoots through his body the moment he hears blasts ring out, and suddenly he is falling into darkness.

* * *

She finds herself walking barefoot down the crowded streets of Paris. The blazing midday sun parches her throat, the sun-baked cobblestones scorch her feet like coals, and an empty stomach makes her sway with hunger.

A group of children run in a wild chase down the road, nearly colliding into her. In a flash, she sees them, two young girls and a boy. The dark-haired lass turns and smiles, her hair a messy tangle and her face smudged with dirt. Her eyes sparkle with life, and Eponine finds herself staring at her younger self. The younger one giggles, clad in nothing but a threadbare chemise and tattered skirt. Azelma. The boy whistles, and for a fleeting moment, the mop of blond hair and cocky smile melt into the image of Gavroche. A sudden gust of wind sweeps her cap off her head and onto the pavement, but she makes no move to retrieve it, for all she sees is her brother's smile, and the corners of her lips curve upward, too.

She feels the urge to chase them, to join them in their game of tag but they run away and though she follows, the maze of narrow streets meanders on and on, and soon they are far away and she cannot keep up. She calls out, but her voice shrivels into a hoarse whisper. She longs to grab on to them, to hug them, to be with them once more. She longs for the old days, wants her brother alive and her sister well and parents who actually care for them, and maybe even that little servant girl she would call a mouse. She would even give up Monsieur Marius to have the picture complete. Like puzzle pieces, they could never be whole when apart.

_Give them back, _she pleads.

She finds herself facing a walled garden. Monsieur Marius is smiling at her, and she smiles back, then she turns and realizes who it was meant for. Cosette. And they smile at each other, caught up in that blissful world of theirs which she could never be a part of. Suddenly, she is the only one left. The alley is cold haze in the rain and memories beckon her to nights spent trudging through the streets daydreaming of the Pontmercy boy. _Not anymore_.

Sunlight filters through the window, basking her in its glow. The warmth soaks through her skin deep into her very bones, renewing strength sapped by fever. The night is over, and a new day has begun. Something stirs within, a raw hunger for life.

The numbness wears off and she feels pain. She groans and clutches the soft fabric under her. She is lying in bed. For a brief moment, she is afraid to open her eyes, a part of her still hoping this is a vision of the afterlife and she is truly and actually dead.

She isn't.

* * *

He is dead. He is dead and off to join his friends in eternal rest as a reward for their labors in the land of the living.

He finds himself in a tunnel. No gas lamps or candles light the way, yet the very walls glow brighter than the sun at noon. A long line of people is marching in a procession. Judging by their clothes, they come from all walks of life. The mighty, the wretched, and the damned. Ahead, the road forks in two. The left branch is wide and crammed with travelers and the other is so narrow that most who traverse that path walk single-file.

Then he sees them. Courfeyrac and Comberferre and the rest of the Les Amis exchanging a hearty pats on the shoulder as they near the point of divergence. To his surprise, none of them bear bullet wounds or any marks of the battle that has just taken place. In a rush to get to them, he pushes and shoves and squeezes himself to join the ranks, but like spirits, they pass through him.

"Comberferre! Joly!" He reaches out, yet they too are no more tangible than mist.

Comberferre shakes his head as Joly mouths some words. He cannot hear, amidst the bustle of the enormous crowd, but reading the other's lips, it dawns on him.

_Not yet._

Then he feels the pull of wind sucking him back, away from his friends, away from this ethereal realm. He is too exhausted to struggle as the force hurtles him through cold space and drops him in the middle of nowhere.

He finds himself trapped in black silence. His body is aching like a cannon had ripped him to shreds. Probably it has. Is this the afterlife, dark and painful? Was this punishment for leading the revolution that cost his friends' lives? He must find his men, but he cannot move because of the pain. He can only groan in frustration.

A faint voice in the distance calls to him.

"Enjolras."

The voice is weak and hoarse and somehow familiar.

"Enjolras, wake up."

His eyelids flutter open. He sees a blue sky.

* * *

**Kindly leave a review if you liked it. If you spot any errors, please tell me. Feedback and constructive criticism will be much appreciated! :3**


	2. A world begins to dawn

Edited: 1/31

**DISCLAIMER: I claim nothing but the wild ramblings of my boredom-addled mind. Credit goes to Victor Hugo for the splendid cast of Les Miserables.**

o0o

Eponine awakens to the cold air of Paris morning. It is eerily silent, save for water trickling off the roof, remnants of a heavy summer shower. There's a band of colors in the sky out the window, but it vanishes in moments, bringing her thoughts back to the present. She is lying on a mattress in a stranger's room. For the first time she can remember, no shouts are heard from the market, no clacking of boots on the cobblestones. The silence is ominous, like a calm lake waiting for the first stonethrow to send ripples across the surface.

Daybreak has faded when voices drift in from below, one soft murmur followed by another, gaining clarity and strength in chorus. The tune is hauntingly familiar, reminiscent of dirges on frostbitten nights by mothers mourning the loss of a child to the cold drafts of the gutters.

She hears a splash. Then the familiar drip of water being wrung from clothes in the vain hope of getting rid of dirt that never quite washes away. Soaked to their elbows in soapy tubs, washerwomen weave a tragic tale.

The revolution is over. The barricade has fallen. The streets are bathed in blood. The boys are dead.

_Dead_.

No survivors.

Monsieur Marius, dead.

Once, when she was a young girl, Eponine slipped and plunged into the frigid waters of spring-thawed Seine. Terror-filled moments later, she was clawing frantically towards the surface as the raging current dragged her deeper into endless blackness. Now Eponine is back there where her throat burns and she can't see in those murky depths as she goes down, down, down.

Her vision clears at last. She feels on fire, her body shaking with the intensity of a dam breaking within. It is anger, she realizes. Rarely felt, rarely bubbles to the surface. She is angry because if Monsieur Marius is indeed dead, then she would have thrown away her life in vain. Her one act of bravery in a lifetime of fear will have been worthless. She cannot bear this thought.

She must find him. She must know.

Eponine leans closer to the window, straining to catch every word.

"I saw guards dragging the bodies away. Mostly students who should be pounding away at their books in the university, not spilling their guts on the streets. It rained, so those uniformed devils had to retreat. Left the corpses piled up in the corner. Now there's blood pooling everywhere. I'll never look at Rue Mondetour the same way again."

"They say a young boy was among them. Poor child, too young to die. Battles are for men, why drag an innocent lad into the bloody mess?"

"Ha! 'Twas bound to happen! Their leader was a fool who didn't know the first thing about a fight. That what they teach you in school? To cause riots in the town square and deceive us poor folk with promises of what can never be?"

"He seemed like an honest man. Really believed in what he was saying. Unfortunately, too hotheaded for his own good."

"Aren't they all? But what a waste. Good men are rare as diamonds and worth twice as much, if you ask me."

No news about Monsieur Marius then. Just the leader, Enjo-Enjo-

_Enjolras. My classmate and good friend, _Monsieur Marius had said when she inquired about the blonde in the crimson jacket spewing out strange words far removed from daily speech but too sophisticated to be nonsense.

Just like that, she's pulled back to the barricades, to people and places she'd love to forget. But among the battle-hungry youths is a familiar face. A kind, gentle face. The face of the first man who ever smiled...and cried for her.

_Monsieur Marius. I must find him. Or what remains of him._

She crawls out of bed, a sting at her side causing her to howl in pain. Seems but a flesh wound, hurts like all the beatings she has ever received bunched into one.

"You're awake!"

She snaps her head to the source of the sound. Chestnut hair framing almond skin peppered with light freckles materializes from the shadows. A girl of five years, small and bony, hazel eyes and pinched cheeks stares back.

"Where am I?" Eponine croaks, her voice coming in ragged wisps even hoarser than before.

Those big eyes widen, something akin to disbelief in her expression. She's a ghost after all-sentenced to this fate by a rifle bullet-and ghosts shouldn't move, much less speak. How is she even breathing?

"Father saved you. He dragged you from the barricades when the guards where away. You've been asleep for two days."

"How'd you find me?"

"You've got the good Lord to thank for that," another voice cuts in. It belongs to a woman, most likely the child's mother. Plump cheeks and buxom frame, unkempt hair and puffy eyelids evidence that rivers of tears had streamed down her cheeks not too long ago.

Eponine remains silent, so the woman goes on.

"After the barricades fell, the rain poured in. My husband braved the downpour to find my brother. Prayed all night to Heaven above he'd still be alive. Well guess what, he wasn't. But God's still merciful. He led us to you and-" Her brow furrows as she gestures to a slightly parted curtain leading to another room in the house. _"him_."

Him?

It could be Marius. Hearing the news of the morning has drained her strength; she wants nothing more than to sink back into bed. But she must know.

"Please." Eponine rarely begs. Stole, wheedled, tricked a hundred times, but only the greatest desperation could drive her to beg. "Please, there's someone I left at the barricades. I need to see if that's him."

Her companion exhales a weary sigh. "You're a stubborn one. My husband kept telling me that's the only reason you survived. You're simply too stubborn to die." Turning to her child, she adds, "Darling, please call your father. I've cried myself too weak to carry a feather."

"Yes, Mama." With a whirl of skirts, the girl is gone, hurrying to obey her mother's command. She's a picture of childish innocence, unlike the rebellious brat Eponine had been at her age. The girl's tired yet bright eyes remind her of Cosette. The girl in shabby rags who dreamed of castles.

_Silly little princess, no knight is coming to rescue you._

Barely a minute later, the girl is back, hand clasped firmly in those of a tall man she calls father. He eyes her solemnly, stroking his graying beard. Eponine shifts uneasily under his gaze, as though he sees through her sins, her past and shame. Unspoken words-imagined or real-she feels them and shivers. _This is the land of the living. There is no place for ghosts. _

At last his features soften, breaking the spell. He nods and stretches an arm for her to lean on. She clutches it gratefully, glad for several pounds of solid muscle to lean her weight on. She takes the first shaky step, but pain from her abdomen makes her hiss.

"You okay there, Miss? It's t' soon for ya t' be walkin' with an injury like that." He looks concerned, but there's something else in his expression. She musters courage to look straight into his eyes without flinching and is surprised by what she finds. There's gentle empathy in those blue pools. He knows the pain of not knowing.

She grits her teeth, steels every hurting muscle against the ache. "I can." _I must_.

She takes more tortured steps, more slowly this time. He leads her to a narrow cot, where a pale face and a mop of flaxen hair are all that's visible under the covers.

She stares coldly at the figure on the mattress. _Of course, who else would it be? Save the leader. Always the leader._

"There were bullet wounds in seven places when we found his body. Even now, his pulse is barely there. 'Tis a miracle he's still breathing," he explains, answering a question she never asked.

Her gaze settles on the bandages peeking from underneath the tiny blanket. She swallows, wincing as pain flares downward. Her throat is dry and scratchy.

This is _him_. The angel with the golden curls and silver tongue. She envisions his profile when she last saw him, so striking in the sunset, but all that comes to mind are red flags, smoking cannons, and her dead brother. For a fleeting moment, she pities him for his failed revolution, then anger stirs, black and evil.

_This is your fault. You took everything away. You killed my family. _Granted, she and Gavroche were never that close, but she felt a sharp loss nonetheless. Security, sanity, trust that someone out there who knew the streets—her streets-existed.

_I wish you were dead. You have no right to live._

Neither did she.

_If you ever recover, rich boy, I'm gonna punch that handsome face till my hands are stained crimson._

She remembers Gavroche and Monsieur Marius once respected this man.

_They're dead. Because of you. Do you know that? Do you care?_

Fighting him can't bring your brother back. Won't help you find Monsieur Marius.

_But hate can._

Yes, hate. Hate to keep her holding on. Hate to remind her of the memory that must never be forgotten. Hate to blunt her record of wrongs. She may be a sinner, but he's a murderer, which is worse. That feels strangely satisfying.

She's hoping in him, too, after all, but not for salvation.

_Live on, Monsieur. Live on and let me hate._ _If you survive, then maybe Monsieur Marius has a chance, too. And then we can settle our score._

One last lingering gaze and her eyes harden with resolve. Slowly, she wrenches her face toward the family and takes a long gulp of air.

And smiles.

"Thank you, but I must leave now. There's someone-" _Steady your voice. Get a grip on yourself. You can do this. _"If he's alive, I must find him. Should our paths cross again, I'll do my best to repay your kindness."

The lady shakes her head. "Consider the debt paid. We helped because we could. You owe us nothing, you and him both. Though he could land us in prison should the guards learn of his whereabouts."

Her husband lays a steadying hand on Eponine's shoulder and hands her a cloth bag. "God bless you, lass. And don't forget to put on fresh bandages every morning."

"Thank you." _Please save him. He's the only hope left._ It's hoarse and weak and afraid, but she has nothing more to say, and Monsieur Marius may be needing her, so she leaves them and disappears into the welcoming cold of the alleyways, where the shadows claim her as their own. This is where she belongs. This is home.

But everything is different now.

o0o

_What are you?_

A question that torments each waking moment, and he hates to acknowledge it.

In the aftermath of the barricade, Enjolras is perplexed with how to put the jagged shards of his life together. He's left with shreds and pieces on the floor, deformed or shattered beyond repair.

What had possessed him, a mere student, to launch a rebellion against the crown? It was rash and unbecoming, futile from the very start. Knowing Combeferre, he wondered why his quiet, peace-loving friend agreed to his plan for revolt. Perhaps he, too, eventually succumbed to the madness.

_What are you?_

A fool.

He believed in Patria. Fought for Patria. But Patria betrayed him. Those men who built guns for the guards, who crafted the bullets, those women who sewed the uniforms, the cold indifference of the masses—the very ones they died to save had killed them.

_What are you?_

A madman.

Dawn at the barricade had sent his world tumbling into madness. Endless freefall down the abyss, and nothing to grab on to. No companion to share in his misery, no ray of light in the endless tunnel of doom. Every night, he is plagued by the terrified looks on their faces.

Years ago, Enjolras looked into a polished coffin, saw the pale corpse of a man in a suit, and thought that was death. He was wrong. He witnessed the smoke of a hundred rifles, saw men drop dead all around and thought that was death.

No, _this_ is what death looks like. All those faces begging him to save them and he could do nothing but watch.

_You promised them a future but marched them off to their deaths. And you couldn't even join them._

_What are you?_

A weakling

He sees the barricade boys valiantly holding their ground against a furious storm of red and blue. Shouts of acclaim ring out from an adoring crowd. This is what they deserve for their bravery, for their willingness to fight for their beliefs. But the applause is drowned out by a volley of bullets, and one by one they fall. A gunshot, he decides, is not loud enough to acknowledge the end of an existence.

_What are you?_

A failure.

The ruins of the barricade remind him of a child's sandcastle washed away by a single wave. A few rifles and a stack of wood planks could never withstand the onslaught of a mighty swell crashing down with the force of a hundred rivers, and in mere moments, their ship of dreams was ripped at its seams.

_What are you?_

A hollow shell of a man.

The captain always goes down with his ship, but fate begrudged him this mercy. He lives, each day sinking deeper into this hell. He had been prepared to die a noble death for the sake of his ideals. But he had not been ready to live.

_What are you?_

You are alive and they are dead and you will carry the burden of their deaths all your life. There is no peace for men like you, whose hands are drenched with blood.

_Red, the blood of slaughtered comrades_

_Black, the dark descent into madness_

_Red, gunfire and dying screams at dawn_

_Black, the nightmare that never ends._

o0o

Her stomach growls. It has been two days since her last meal. Hunger lashes out vindictively, commanding her to acknowledge its existence. Three weeks have passed since the barricade has fallen. Three weeks of being alive.

It's almost surreal. Like this isn't her life, just a borrowed existence. No fear of dying because she is already dead.

Her hand clutches her side, where a bullet should have ended her life half a month ago. She has said her last goodbyes to the man whose heart belonged to another. She has lost both her brother and beloved to the barricade, witnessed the rise and fall of a revolution, and held the hunger-ravaged corpse of her sister. She has been through all this and survived. And so it is with head held high that Eponine walks into the shanty that has been her home for so long. There is not a single coin in her pocket, but she cannot care less. Let her mother scream at the top of her lungs. Let her father beat her if he dares. Her body's a battered maze of scars already. This time, she will fight back.

She pauses and fills her lungs with air, taking in the stench of this place for the last time. No bile wells up now.

With a slight push of the makeshift door, she swings it open and ducks past the low entrance into their cramped dwelling. Her parents are away, and what meager furnishings remain are a scattered wreck whose owners who have forgotten to care anymore. Her gaze drifts toward the makeshift bed she has shared with Azelma for three years. It is empty. Her eyes shut solemnly, comprehending the silence. Fate has taken everything from her, and she has nothing more to lose now.

She is Eponine Thenardier, daughter of the moon and child of the night.

Hanging on to the frayed strands of hope that remain.

o0o

The rain is assaulting, pounding on the roof with the ferocity of a hundred gunshots in rapid succession. The adrenaline that comes from standing so close to death, knowing that every breath could be your last, now washes over him in waves of regret.

He hears the bullets scream past, sees anguish and terror etched on their faces, inhales the acrid scent of fresh blood mingled with thick, suffocating smoke. With each thunderclap he relives the firing of cannons.

It's during these moments like this when tension suffocates the air, when you hold your breath watching the rise and fall of the other's chest, when you notice reddish strands among the clump of black hair in his head, when your eyes trace patterns in the fissures in concrete, when you start counting ants worshipping a drop of whiskey. That was the longest night of his life, and he had never felt more alive.

Grantaire steps forward, swinging a half-empty bottle in a wild arc in their direction. "Friends, philosophers, revolutionists. Men today, heroes tomorrow, I invite you to examine this marvelous work of art by the renowned French artist Monsieur Courfeyrac!" Rowdy hoots and cheers and clanging of pots applaud in jest.

"And now, my dear man, would you care to unveil the mysteries behind this exceptionally intricate masterpiece of yours?" It is Comberfere who speaks this time.

"As you see, this figure is none other than the acclaimed physician Joly. To his right is the great philosopher and erudite scholar Comberfere. Our leader with the voice of an angel, Enjolras! Let us not forget the valiant prince of the streets, Gavroche, and the wine connoisseur Grantaire whose taste for absinthe is a legend in the Corinth. As for the identity of this round head, I leave the audience to guess," says Courfeyrac with a mischievous grin. Courfeyrac, whose carefree demeanor could convince anyone that wine were the magical antidote to all ill.

"Bossuet!" they shout and raise their bottles in chorus. His men are roaring drunk, and he makes no move to stop them.

"Come on, Enjolras! Join us in a toast to the success of the revolution! Long live France! Success to the revolution! More hair to Bossuet!"

"More hair to Bossuet!" they echo.

There is no resemblance between the stick figures and his men, but for once, he couldn't care less.

He thrashes under the covers. His body is shaking feverishly, his clothes drenched in cold sweat. He reaches to grasp a gun, a knife, a bludgeon-anything to use as a weapon. Tear-blurred eyes dart wildly around the room and find nothing.

He gets up to wash his face, to banish the bitter taste of defeat from his tongue, wishing the cold tap could numb him to it all. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he's taunted by the face in the mirror. Dark bruises, a long gash on his forehead, rivulets of water coursing down his skin like blood. _Look how far you've fallen._

It's the eyes that unnerve him. Those are the eyes of one who has been to hell and back.

The image drags him back to the battlefield, and cannonballs tear down the barricade and his friends are dead and it is all over. Then, because his mind cannot take any more of the carnage, he drifts back to memories of the Café Mussain. Back to happier times and heated arguments and bawls of laughter over delicious wine. What he would give to bring back the old days, when the warmth of friendship overflowed and understanding bound them despite their contrasting personalities. Grantaire is roaring drunk, and Bahorel's witty remarks have no effect on his absinthe-induced haze. Jehan is writing poetry, Joly is rambling to Bossuet about an itch on his back, Courfeyrac is laughing with Gavroche, Combeferre is surveying the scene with somber eyes, and Marius—Marius is dreaming in a world of his own. And there is Gavroche, the fearless young fellow of barely a dozen summers who bravely risked his life to gather ammunition at the barricade.

There is someone else. In his mind's eye, a new figure enters the room. It's a skinny lass with sunken eyes and threadbare clothes who clings to Marius like a shadow. That girl had been the first to fall, merely hours after the barricade was erected. She looked so young, barely a woman, body frail and thin from malnourishment. And yet her face bore the most serene expression he had seen, as if death had chosen to make her beautiful.

If he were a poet, he'd write each one of them an epitaph. He isn't, so he curls into himself and cries.

o0o

It is nearly twilight, and Eponine finds herself wandering near the ruins of the Corinth. Her wound has healed, leaving a faint scar. _A memory of bravery. _She weaves downtown through corners and alleys, a quest in her heart, a song on her lips. Such is the way of those who dwell in Paris' streets. Songs and wine are the only outlet to their grief.

She sings about her childhood, about happier days spent playing with dolls and frolicking with playmates on lazy afternoons. She sings about boys who went to fight a war that was never theirs, about young lovers meeting in gardens in secret, and voices so powerful they could spark rebellions in their wake. She sings about mistakes and the sadness they bring. Finally her scattered warbling changes to a toast for the newlywed Pontmercy couple.

Monsieur Marius didn't invite her - who'd want a ghost at their wedding - but she wants to do them the honors. Sifting through a heap of sacks in lying against a wall, she finds an empty bottle. She raises it along with a loaf of bread she had stolen an hour ago. It's cruelty, stealing a boy's dinner, but she's learned to shrug it off. She finds an spot in the corner sheltered from the damp, sits down with her head leaning against the wall, and eats every last crumb.

A couple of months ago, Eponine would have been jealous. She would have cursed Cosette with every fiber of her being and wished she were in the other girl's place. Now she only feels relief that Marius is alive and happy. And a pinch of remorse for being mean to Cosette. In this world there are only hollow victories, a guilty conscience, and endless regret.

A pair of drunken guards stumble out a nearby tavern, their blazing red uniforms a stark contrast to the gloom of the alley. One of them turns and gives her a lecherous sneer. She has seen that sinister mouth, those merciless eyes before, and her grip on her skirt tightens. He was there at the barricade.

For a moment she is trapped between fleeing for her life before they recognize her and charging wildly at them to inflict as much damage as a frail street urchin in rags can do. Then the guard stumbles and his companion drags him away, muttering curses with every step.

There they go, into the realm between light and shadow. Nothing but a pair of glorified murderers biding their time before judgment day. When it comes for them, she hopes the flames will not be kind.

Her weary frame sags down in relief. _So close._ Her hands are trembling and her racing pulse is ringing in her ear, but she can't help the smirk on her face.

There is something else. Something they could never-will never-take away. _Hope. _She remembers her brother, remembers Marius, remembers the golden-haired leader of the revolution. They can take everything away everything else, but not hope.

A familiar whistle breaks the silence, followed by murmured instructions. The Patron Minette is nearby.

It feels strange not to be part of this, but she realizes she doesn't miss it. Not the loot, not the life of a thief, and certainly not her father. After marching out of that horrid shack, she wants nothing more to do with the remnants of her former life.

A stylish figure walks past, hands tucked in the pockets of his stolen coat. Her father and his henchmen will beat her up if they find her. Montparnasse is different, though.

"Parnasse," she whispers sharply, crouching deeper into her cover of shadows. He's still whistling. Again, more forceful this time. "Parnasse!"

"Eponine? I thought you were dead!"

"Listen! I'm calling a favor tonight. Can you get me tickets to the county?"

"Oh? You are not here to help us, then?" He throws a lit cigarette on the ground, crushing it underfoot. "What a waste. I figured you could be of use tonight." His eyes flash dangerously.

"I'm out of this."

"Enjoying your customers lately? They paying you much, huh?"

"I can earn my own keep. Honest work, Parnasse." She snapped, indignant with the accusation. "Once I get out of this city."

"Like you'd survive out in the wild!" He laughs, cold and laced with scorn that digs into her bones. "You know better than that. _Honest work _never gets you anywhere, lass." She says nothing, so he straightens up, tipping his hat and smoothing out his coat. "When you've not a coin left in your pocket you can always come running to me. Rest assured I'll get your blasted ticket-how many did you say you need?"

His gold tooth reminds her of something else entirely. A crown of gold atop an angelic face. "Two," she replies.

"Two," he amends, holding up two fingers. And with an amused grin, he tucks his hand back into his pocket and saunters away.

Two tickets and then it's over. She won't need Parnasse or her father to survive.

She waits for her father's thugs to pass before stumbling down the street. She finds herself walking down Rue de Mondetour. Moonlight bathes the path in a peaceful glow. The silence of this autumn night is a far cry from the nightmare of bullet-riddled corpses lying strewn about in streets that bloomed with pungent crimson mixed with tears from heaven.

For the first time in two months, the air does not suffocate. For the first time, she lifts her face to the sky and awaits the dawn.


	3. The night that ends at last

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Miserables.**

It's five months after the June rebellion of 1832. To the world, their deaths are figures on paper and nothing more. Grantaire was right - no one remembers the fallen.

The former leader, the flame-tongued youth who raised the barricades with the might of his ideals, is simply, cruelly, lost.

His family thinks him dead. He thinks himself dead.

He is not dead.

But his words are.

Night finds him in the upper room, elbows propped on a desk barely illuminated by candelight and moonbeams slipping through cracks, furrowed brow bent over parchment. Pen in hand, ink stains blotting his palms, seriousness etched in his deeply furrowed brow, he broods over a sheet of paper. His eyes flick from left to right through a jumble of meaningless phrases, half-formed thoughts crushed at infancy, and a huge inkblot at the end. The pen has bled all over the floor, dark like blood.

There's one book on his makeshift desk. It's a book of children's tales. Not politics or law, not Roberspierre or Machiavelli or other names that once so easily rolled off his tongue. He's traded them for pirates and maids and blacksmith's sons.

Why does he even bother? These eyes should not see. These fingers should not hold a pen. But they do, so he plods on with his inkblots, for sanity's sake. Because if they take away everything, who will you be then?

An hour passes and he has made peace with one sentence.

A revolution is not a where, but a why, he realizes. They died. He lived. He will never know why, so he will always be lost. The barricades were real and over and life goes on, even for those left behind.

He is alive.

He knows this now.

* * *

It is raining when destiny orders their worlds to collide.

He wears a black vest over his brown shirt, without a trace of the bold red of before. A dark chestnut wig hides the gold over his weary brow, and rippled shadows haunt his weary eyes, but no drabness can soften that unmistakable blue.

"You…survived."

"I see you made it alive as well, Madame."

Water droplets begin to pelt her skin, gaining number and strength by the minute. She remains there, unmoving. The rain has always fascinated her as a child. How the sky could shed that many tears - sometimes gentle plops, sometimes roaring dumbeats.

She peers up at him, brow raised. Soulless orbs have replaced hawk-eyed glares. His once stiff posture has been traded for a hunched limp. Maybe it's not him, just his doppleganger. Maybe the delirium of hunger has granted her the power to see ghosts.

Random theories crisscross in her mind while all he thinks is_ Why can't I remember her name?_

This girl, this paper thin street urchin who was Pontmercy's shadow, triggers a landslide in of memories. Of a night on couches and sewing tables, armchairs and pianos, haphazardly stacked together. Of candlelit meetings in the backroom of a cafe. Of victory chants ringing out in chorus. For a moment, the rain that drenches them seems to turn scarlet, and he blinks furiously.

Eyes meet as for the first time, a soul reaches out for someone who shares the remembrance, who can attest they were not merely the imagined thousand flashes of almost-death. _Tell me_, he'd beg had his voice not deserted him, _tell me what and how and why._

Sunken eyes on a haggard face, lips that have forgotten how to smile - that's what Eponine sees. No way this man in shabby clothes is the voice behind the revolution caused by - was it courage or folly or madness? For all she knew, it could have been the ramblings fueled by a hungry stomach. Yes, she can forgive him for that.

"You'll catch a cold, good sir! Let's find shelter. Can't have you dying now, can we?" Her voice is hoarse, and not from the cold.

_You don't understand. I'm already dead-_no. He is alive. He is alive so he follows her away from the rain.

Eventually the clouds clear away to reveal the moon. She traces glowing patterns in the sky, but with every twinkle he sees the glint of sunlight on rifle nuzzles.

"Proserpine. That's who you remind me of." Those are his first words to her.

"Who?"

He tells the myth of snow and spring, of a young maiden, a grieving mother, and a crushed pomegranate. Of cold light and thawing darkness. Of vapor and mirages and flowers of death. Of a girl who grew up.

"She survived."

The unspoken question hangs heavily in the air.

_Why are you alive?_

_I don't know._

"Monsieur, do you believe in second chances?"

He says nothing, so she goes on.

"God is merciful, Monsieur."

A torrent of questions threatens to break free, but he shoves them back with the last of his strength. He has always scoffed at the idea of God. If there were a God, why would he let the peasants suffer at the hands of cruel oppressors? Let their revolution fail? Let his friends die? Let him live?

"There is a God in Heaven, yes. I believe it to be true," says Eponine, to the fence. "Otherwise, how can you explain why we're alive?"

"We should be dead." The bitterness has fled, replaced by wonder.

"Yes," she agrees, her voice a ragged echo of his, "we should be."

But they are not. And now they must find a way to live.

* * *

His domain was of fiery speeches and blazing passion, glorious days and hearts aflame, radiant sunlight and golden summers. Hers was the realm of shadows and moonlit nights, whispered secrets at street corners, icy darkness and harsh winters. He is the day and she is the night, and the worlds of gamines and bourgeoisie never collide—except at the gates of death, where balance is upset, rules set aside, distinctions forgotten, and every hope and belief thrown to the wind in the name of survival.

A leather parcel slips from Enjolras' grasp, splashing into flooded streets. He bends over with an agonized grimace. Pain flares down in his spine, forcing him to kneel. Before can wets his knees, a hand has scooped up the stray package.

He murmurs inaudible thanks. She shrugs.

Tonight the world is drenched in rain. Tomorrow comes a new dawn awash in light.

Tomorrow will be two tickets and a carriage into the French countryside, after which they shall (not) go separate ways. He will procure fake documents and she will lay flowers beside the Elephant of Paris. When they pack supplies for the journey, he will squeeze in a circular tricolored badge and she will toss in a couple of lock picks—one should always be ready for anything, she will reason when his brow arches in rebuke-and he will nod in silence, though they know this has less to do with actual survival than preserving a part of who they once were.

The eye of the storm has passed. Now comes the gentle rain, along with a second chance at life.

And the sun and the moon no longer bleed crimson.

END


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